City Lights Lay Out Before Us
by Kyllikki
Summary: Four words: Alex. Bobby. Road trip. (Chapter 2 uploaded)
1. Chapter 1

**City Lights Lay Out Before Us**

by Kyllikki (kyllikki8@hotmail.com)

Disclaimer:  I'm just along for the ride.

Set mid-"Tomorrow" (aired 11/10/02 in US); spoilers for that episode herein.  Also, for my own nefarious purposes, I'm fudging with the timeline and moving the action in this episode back to mid-September.  It'll be worth it, I promise. 

Summary:  Four words:  Alex.  Bobby.  Road trip.

Notes at the end.

***

Alex sighed as the door to Carver's office closed behind them.  Not enough probable cause for a warrant.  No warrant, no psych files; no psych files, no real leverage.  And without leverage, their case was no better than supposition.  On top of which, they received the toned-down version of the riot act from Carver, who managed to remind them to stay on the straight and narrow without actually having to say it.  Did they teach that in law school? she wondered.  But Carver was clear about one thing: she and Bobby would have to find another source of information if they wanted to put the nanny away for murder.  She glanced over at Bobby to catch his reaction; given his contentious relationship with Carver, she wouldn't be surprised if he had used the moments walking out of the office to work himself up into a snit of righteous indignation.  Judging by his thousand-yard stare, though, bitching about the injustices of the system was the last thing on his mind.  

"What?" she murmured, already afraid of where this was leading.  She could practically see the wheels turning in his head.

Bobby looked meaningfully at her, a familiar, hey-this-is-crazy-but-it-just-might-work look.  "You heard what Carver said:  'some other way.'  I can think of another way."  

She was a sucker for that look.  He didn't need to know that, though, and she knew deep down in her gut that whatever he had come up with was going to be a Bad Idea of epic proportions.

"Bobby, no," she said, shaking her head to cut him off.  "Whatever you're thinking -- no."

He grinned at her.  "Another way.  I have another way ... wanna hear what it is?"

Her inner six year-old wanted to close her eyes, stuff her fingers in her ears and sing "La la la la I can't hear you!"  Of course, if she let her inner six-year old have her way, she'd also punch Bobby in the arm, yell "Cooties!" and run away.  And since she was a professional with a reputation to uphold, there would be none of that.  She settled for quickly brushing past him and refusing to meet his eyes.

He caught up with her easily and planted himself in her path.  He leaned down to peer into her face, grinning a grin worthy of the Cheshire cat.  "We're going to Meadville," he whispered.

"Bobby--" 

"Nonono, hear me out, okay?" he said. "We'll go to the institution, see if there's anyone there who remembers her."  

She stopped short.  "Bobby, listen to me.  First of all, there's no way that evidence would hold up in court."  She began ticking the reasons off on her fingers.  "Second of all, there's no way the department is going to spring for two same-day round-trip tickets to Pittsburgh; and third of all ..."  Her voice trailed off and she frowned.  "I don't even have a 'third of all.'  It's just too ridiculous."  She tried her best to glower sternly at him, but his resulting smirk made her question her success.

"Alex.  Who says the department has to know about it?  We can leave now and be back by tomorrow morning.  No one has to know."  

His use of her first name surprised her.  Boy, he must really be desperate.  She snorted.  "Yeah, you say this because I'm the one who has to drive."

She gave him credit for at least attempting to look apologetic.

She tried one more time.  "We're still on the clock, and this little adventure of yours has to go below radar.  And even if we leave right after work, it's still a long trip to western Pennsylvania and back again.  You wanna be the one to explain this to Deakins?"  

"This could be our best chance of figuring out what's driving this girl.  As for the rest" -- he waved his hand in a dismissive gesture -- "it's just logistics.  We can manage it."  He gave her his most charming smile, the one he reserved for uncooperative female witnesses whose help he really needed.  The guaranteed-to-make-'em-melt smile.  She knew what he was doing, she knew that smile -- but knowledge and resistance weren't even in the same ballpark.  It was too late.  He was into full-on wheedling now, and she reluctantly admitted to herself that any resistance she put up from this point would be largely token.  

She saw his charming grin widen into one of triumph.  Dammit, he had her.  And what's worse, he _knew he had her._

"Fine," she said somewhat petulantly.  "But only because this is our best shot of getting a break in the case, okay?"  Then, realizing that the middle of One Hogan Place probably wasn't the ideal location to be discussing their forthcoming less-than-departmentally-approved adventure, she began steering Bobby to the elevators.    

While they waited for the elevator car to arrive, he refused to stand still, instead bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet.  She noted this behavior and caught the gleam in his eyes and then put the two pieces together.  "You just want to play hooky, don't you?"  

His eyes widened at her question.  "Eames, I'm surprised you would think that.  My motives are pure as the driven snow, I assure you."  But something in his voice belied his innocent manner.  

The elevator dinged and she followed him onto the crowded car.  "Whatever you say," she muttered, assuming the tone of the unconvinced.  She thought she heard him snort derisively, but there were so many people sharing space with them that she was uncertain.  Even more people looking to escape the confines of One Hogan Place joined them at the next floor down, and thus Alex found herself crammed between Bobby and a wheezing bald man who was not-so-surreptitiously trying to look down her shirt.  

Their close proximity did nothing to diminish Bobby's zeal for finishing their discussion, but the glut of people forced him to lean down and murmur -- or share their entire conversation with a bunch of strangers, including Wheezing Guy.  "I promise this is legit," he said.  Pressed up against him, she could feel as well as hear the rumble of his voice.  "I wouldn't have suggested it otherwise.  But anyway" -- and here his voice dropped to a whisper that, in another setting, would almost qualify as sexy -- "how long has it been since you've taken a road trip?"

She looked up sharply at him and saw his eyes dancing with mirth.  _Bastard, she thought, even as she felt the corners of her mouth turn up at the prospect of running away from the city for a few hours.  Mercifully, the elevator finally reached the lobby, freeing Alex from Wheezing Guy and hiding her burgeoning grin from her partner.  As they escaped the crowd, it occurred to her that a trip below radar in an NYPD fleet car was inherently paradoxical.  And that meant..._

"If we're going to Pennsylvania, we can't take the SUV," she said.  "Fleet car equals accounting for mileage, remember?"

Bobby frowned but appeared otherwise unfazed by her declaration.  "I figured we'd take your car," he said.  Apparently realizing she might not take too well to his presumption, he added, almost as an afterthought, "Unless that's a problem, of course."  

She stifled a low growl of frustration.  This was just Bobby being Bobby, she reminded herself.  Steamrolling people was second nature to him.  But man, one of these days...  She wondered if grabbing your partner by the scruff of his neck and giving him a good hard shake was against departmental regulations.  She bit back a sarcastic remark about why didn't he just help himself to all her possessions while he was at it, but in the interests of partnerly harmony all she said was, "No, that's fine."

"Okay then," he replied, apparently oblivious to her irritation.  "I'll drop you off at home and then return the SUV.  You can follow me back to One PP."

She shook her head.  "Nope, that'll take too long.  Go return the SUV and get our stuff from upstairs.  I'll take a cab to get my car and then pick you up, okay?  That way we can be efficient in our hooky-playing."  She uttered the last sentence without a trace of irony.  

He nodded.  "All right, then -- see you in a little while."  

She nodded curtly and reached out to hail a cab.  _You're gonna regret this, the voice in the back of her head warned.  But that didn't stop her from indulging in a small smile; after all, Bobby had never seen her car._

***

Bobby returned the SUV to the One PP garage with little fanfare, barely batting an eye as he glibly told the attendant (who wondered why one partner picked up the vehicle and the other was dropping it off) that Eames was off "pursuing a new lead."  It wasn't until he was on the elevator that he realized that the more formidable task lay before him:  retrieving their coats and Eames' briefcase from the squad room without having to explain himself to the captain.  He'd need the change of clothes he kept in the gym bag underneath his desk, as well -- if he was going to spend the better part of the next 24 hours in the car, he sure as hell didn't want to be wearing a suit.  No wonder she sent him to do the job.  She probably hoped he'd get snared by Deakins and she'd be off the hook.  He considered that for a moment before dismissing it.  No, once he had managed to talk her into their little mission, she seemed almost ... enthusiastic.  Okay, so she wasn't setting him up to get caught, and given the smile on her face as he left her, he thought she might be more than a little pissed off if he _did get caught.  And there would be no disappointing Eames today, he decided.  So.  Where did that leave him?  He didn't really think of himself as particularly self-aware, but he wasn't stupid; he did look in the mirror every day, after all, and thus knew that he couldn't exactly tiptoe in and hope his presence wouldn't be noticed, especially not with the armful of stuff he had to leave with.  Hiding in plain sight, then.  In __very plain sight, he decided -- and grinned.  This was going to be fun._

When the elevator doors opened, he burst through them.  He dashed across the short hallway going full-throttle, almost flattening one of his coworkers as he rounded the corner.  "Sorry!" he called back over his shoulder, hearing unintelligible expletives in response.  He swooped over to their joint desk space, making a show of rummaging  through the piles of papers and muttering to himself.  While he was bending over to look, he quickly reached down to retrieve his gym bag.  Still muttering, he pulled a paper from near the bottom of a stack and shouted "A-HA!" triumphantly.  He didn't really care what he was holding -- it was the show that counted, and out of the corner of his eye he could see Deakins standing at the door to his office looking somewhat bemused.  Stuffing the "precious" document in his gym bag, he grabbed Eames' briefcase and started tearing off from whence he came.  Halfway to the elevator, he did a quick 180 and returned for their jackets.  Deakins was still standing in the doorway watching him.

"I forgot ... our coats," he said apologetically to Deakins, shrugging.  "She hates it when I do that."  Then he dashed back to the elevators, sparing a quick glance over his shoulder to see Deakins shake his head and retreat into his office.  The elevator arrived and he quickly ducked in, not bothering to keep the grin off his face.  Mission accomplished.

Five minutes later and much more comfortably attired in a black t-shirt and jeans, Bobby waited in front of One PP for Eames and calculated the logistics of this trip.  For all that he professed to her that the details would work themselves out when he was trying to talk her into this, he was a bit concerned with the timeline.  It was twenty 'til eleven already, and it would probably take them just over six hours to get to Meadville, which would put them at the institution shortly before five.  He doubted anyone there was going to be especially receptive if they came waltzing in at 4:45 asking lots of complicated questions; they'd simply have to shave off some travel time.  Eames wasn't a slave to the speed limit, but he'd never seen her go more than a couple miles per hour over, either.  Not that speeding was generally an issue, given the heavy traffic they inevitably ended up driving in; maybe she drove differently on the open road.  

It was then he realized he had no idea what kind of car Eames drove.  No, that couldn't be right.  She must have mentioned it at some point.  But nothing came to mind.  She always took the subway in to work (doing her part to save the ozone layer, she joked) and if they needed a vehicle for a case, they used fleet cars.  Her nose wrinkled the first time he requested an SUV -- they gave him much-needed leg room -- but she never said anything else about it.  He could probably safely rule out SUV from the list of candidates, then.  As for anything else...  He frowned slightly, trying to imagine what she would drive.  Since she had never said anything about it, he presumed it to be an unremarkable car.  And Eames was practical to the bone, so she'd probably want something with a long life and good gas mileage and safety features.  A Volvo or a Honda.  Probably a smaller model, since she didn't really have anything or anyone that needed transporting on a regular basis.  Satisfied with his profile, he began scanning the street for cars fitting the pattern ... which is how he missed seeing her until she honked.

But this... this was not the practical car he envisioned.  How had she failed to mention this to him before?  He tried to mask his shock as she pulled up to the curb.

"So I hear you're playing hooky," she called as she pulled to a stop. "You want a ride?"  

A '65 Mustang.  Eames was driving a pristine, candy apple red '65 Mustang convertible and wearing -- what _was she wearing? -- describing her v-neck white t-shirt as "snug" would be generous, since it left exactly none of her curves to the imagination, and she had a pair of faded jeans that sat low on her hips.  Her expression of wide-eyed innocence notwithstanding, he suspected she knew __exactly the reaction she was going to get.  He obliged her with a low whistle.  _

His suspicion was confirmed when she said slyly, "What, you've never seen a pony car before?"  

"Something like that," he said.  "Now I see why we always drive on the city's tab."

"You want me to waste this beautiful piece of machinery on driving to and from crime scenes?" she scoffed. "Fat chance." 

"We'd certainly get a lot more attention," he murmured, taking in the car.  

She gave him a strange look and he couldn't quite figure out why until he realized he was still standing on the sidewalk staring stupidly at the Mustang. 

"Well, this was your idea," she said. "So why don't you throw your stuff in the back and let's get the hell outta Dodge."  

"Right.  Sorry," he replied, still a bit off-kilter.  But he obediently tossed her briefcase and their jackets in the backseat and climbed in.  Eames gunned the accelerator and they sped off into the bright fall morning.

*******__**

_Notes:  _

(Slightly revised with the Chapter 2 update to make Bobby sound more Bobby-like.)

I fully intend to get Bobby and Alex to Pennsylvania and back again -- it's just going to take a while.  Have patience.  :)

The title is lovingly robbed from Tracy Chapman's "Fast Car."

jael gets the betacakes, as always.    


	2. Chapter 2

**City Lights Lay Out Before Us**

by Kyllikki (kyllikki8@hotmail.com)

Disclaimers, etc. in chapter one.

Note:  I made a few revisions to chapter one to make Bobby sound more Bobby-like.  Serves me right for posting a WIP.  :)  Additional notes at the end.

Chapter 2

***

They were through the Holland tunnel and into Jersey before Bobby said another word.  Alex didn't bother to hide what she knew must be a smug smile; after all, it wasn't every day she could flummox her partner like this.

"Eames?"

"Yeah?"

"Why didn't you tell me you had a Mustang?"

"Never came up, I guess.  Besides, it's not like I walk around with 'I Love Classic Mustangs' tattooed on my forehead."

"But, Alex ... it's a Mustang."

There was her first name again.  Twice in one morning had to be some sort of record.  "Yes, Bobby, I'm well aware of that."  She glanced at him.  "Are you being deliberately obtuse?"

He chuckled -- or, at least, made a noise that amounted to a chuckle.  Bobby's laughs always sounded just short of psychotic.  "No, it's just that you ... surprised me.  This was ... unexpected.  The car."

A feeling of triumph swelled within her.  "I've got unseen depths," she said.  "Lots of layers."

"Like an onion," he said.  

She glanced at him again, receiving a shrug and a self-deprecating half-smile.  

"So.  The car ... where did it come from?"

She smiled.  "The scrap yard."

"And...?"

"And nothing.  That's where the car came from."

He heaved an exasperated sigh.  "Oh, come on, Eames, don't make me drag this story out of you."  

"What, now you want a confession wrapped up with a bow?  That's no fun."

"Who said anything about fun?"

Now it was her turn for the exasperated sigh.  "Bobby, we're on a road trip, playing hooky in a classic car.  And" -- she waved her hand to dismiss his inevitable protest -- "don't give me the line about 'having' to do this for the case.  Our fingers could have done the walking just fine.  I think 'fun' is pretty much the point, here."

"So my ... interrogating ... you about how you came to have this car would be ... fun?  Doesn't sound like much fun to me."  

"You know what, just forget it.  I'll tell you the whole sto--"  Realization dawned and she turned to glare at him, getting all the confirmation she needed from the laughter in his eyes.  "That almost worked.  Damn."  

"In the nick of time," he acknowledged.  "Okay, I'll play.  You got the car from a scrap yard.  How old were you?"

"It was the summer before I turned sixteen."  

"You bought the car before you had a driver's license?"

"_I didn't buy it."  She tried not to smile -- making Bobby work for his information __was fun -- and waited for him to draw the inference._

"It was ... your dad.  Your dad bought it for you because he ... wanted you to fix it?  So you'd know how a car was put together."  His tone was uncertain; this was a guess, she could tell.  A well-founded guess, but still looking to her response for confirmation.

_Score one for the detective, she thought.  "I wasn't allowed to drive until my car was drivable.  It was my dad's way of keeping me off the streets and making me learn practical skills."_

"And how long did that take?"

"To get the car fixed?  A little less than two years."  

"What, did you have to rebuild it from scratch?"

"Almost.  The front end was all smashed up, there was rust all over, the engine was shot and it needed new everything.  Still, it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen."

"You fell in love."  His voice became more confident.  She could tell he felt like he was on the right track and felt no compunction to dissuade him from that belief.

"Oh, yeah.  I had to get a job to pay for the parts and buy 'em when I had the cash -- another important part of dad's scheme -- and that's why it took me so long."

"You knew a lot about cars?"

"Are you kidding?  I didn't know the first thing beyond putting the keys in the ignition and filling the gas tank."  Okay, maybe an exaggeration, but effective for her purposes and not too far from the truth.  And then she heard the magic words...

"So how did you learn?  Did you take machine shop at school?"  He looked casually out the window as the easy confidence in his voice gave way to cockiness.  She'd heard him use this tone with dozens of suspects -- it only came through when Bobby was so certain he knew what had happened that he began to toy with his opponent.  

_Gotcha.  "Ricky Jackson.  He lived three doors down and was a total grease monkey."  She laughed, but whether more at the memory of Ricky or at the flicker of surprise on Bobby's face, she couldn't tell.  "Actually, if my old man had known that the car would mean I'd be spending more time at Ricky's, I think he would have left it to rot in the scrap yard."_

Bobby's attention quickly snapped back onto her, though he did an admirable job trying to mask it under the guise of extreme nonchalance.  She relished the brief pause that indicated he was rearranging and refocusing his thoughts.  "Your parents didn't approve of ... grease monkeys?" he asked.

"My parents didn't approve because he had long hair and an earring.  He also drank beer, played loud music and had a thing for drag racing.  And that was just the stuff they knew about."

"You found out ... more?"

"Like I said, it took me two years to rebuild the car.  It made for a lot of hours in the garage."

"How long did the two of you go out?"

"I thought you wanted to know about the car," she said.  Yanking Bobby's chain was one thing, but no way was she going to start discussing the high school love of her life.  

"Fair enough."

Now it was her turn to look askance at him.  She had expected resistance on his part -- after all, Bobby was curious about _everything -- and his ready acquiescence was more than a little surprising.  Or maybe he'd just conceded the battle.  She knew it was petty and childish to try to rattle him, but sometimes she felt the need to remind him of her presence, that she was more than just his trusty echo.  She couldn't shake the feeling, though, that her ploy had succeeded in poking a hornet's nest with a stick and that she would now be the entire focus of his attention.  She glanced over at him, but he was again staring out at the "landscape," such as it was, and appeared to have lost interest in the subject entirely.  Taking the reprieve for what it was worth, she again turned her attention to the road ahead._

***

They stopped for lunch at a Wendy's just inside Pennsylvania.  Bobby's borderline-psycho laugh was back as she pulled into the parking lot.  

"Whaaat?" she said.

"Your idea of a fun road trip ... includes braving the wilds of Wendy's?  You're really branching out, Eames."

"Shut up, Bobby," she said good-naturedly as she turned off the car.  

"I'm just saying, shouldn't we be eating at some kitschy little roadside diner?"

"That depends on whether you want to make it to Meadville before five.  Besides, I like my road trip bathrooms to be relatively clean and free of vermin, thank you very much."

"And I thought this was supposed to be an adventure."

"I'm going to the bathroom.  You get our food.  To go."

He lifted his arms in a "hey, whatever you say" gesture.  "What do you want to eat?"

"Surprise me," she said.  "Just don't order any coffee -- in case you hadn't noticed, the car doesn't have cupholders."

"But I was looking forward to collecting $3 million and retiring in luxury."  

"And being a late-night punchline for the next five years?"

"A small price to pay."

"You're forgetting about the burns," she said, grinning wickedly.  And with that comment, she turned on her heel and headed toward the restrooms, acutely aware that she was leaving a chastened and bemused Bobby in her wake.  Damn, this was fun.

***

Bobby hated eating on the road. He knew it was a necessary evil in this case, since they were pressed for time, but there was still something so undignified about holding one's drink between one's legs and precariously maneuvering one's sandwich so it wouldn't slop condiments onto one's shirt or pants.  Add a 70-mph breeze to the mix, courtesy of the convertible, and lunch in the car became all of the inconvenience of a picnic without any of its romantic charm.  He looked over at Eames.  She hadn't seemed to mind, and had handled the driving/eating/drinking combination with a considerable amount of aplomb.  Of course, after her crack in the parking lot about burns, she had the upper hand.  And because of their relative silence after lunch -- over an hour ago, he realized -- she had been enjoying the upper hand uncontested for far too long.  Well, he could change that.  "What would you do with the $3 million?  If you could skip the part with the burns, I mean?"

"Excuse me?"  She glanced over at him, as if unsure of his purpose.  Good.

"If you got a $3 million jury settlement ... what would you do with it?"

She shrugged.  "I never really thought about it before."

"Come on, everyone thinks about it.  You know, 'What would I do if I won the lottery,' stuff like that.  What would you do?"  He tried to keep his tone light so as not to belie his curiosity.  The question was well within the "game" parameters she had implicitly set up at the beginning of their excursion, and yet you could discover a lot about a person if the question was answered honestly.

"Is it $3 million before or after taxes?"

"Aren't you picky."

"I'm just saying, it makes a difference."

"Okay, fine, $3 million tax-free."

"Poor Uncle Sam."

"Yeah, he's really disappointed.  Quit stalling."

"With $3 million?  I'd probably take a few months off work, for starters."

He felt a pang of disappointment in her answer, though he wasn't sure whether it was because of its mundanity or the prospect of having to deal with a new partner.  "You wouldn't want to keep working?  No, of course you wouldn't, you could easily live on $3 million."  

"I'd still work.  I can't imagine lazing around on a yacht for the rest of my life ... but I could get used to it for a month or two."  Her smile looked almost lascivious, but with a tinge of ... sadness?  No, that couldn't be right.  

"Where would you go?  In your yacht, I mean."

"Someplace warm and tropical, probably.  You know, the typical stuff." 

"That still leaves over $2 million."  _You can do better than this, he thought._

"Well, I'd buy my folks a nice house, probably give some to charity, invest some, and then ... I don't know."

"Oh, come _on, Eames!"  Why wouldn't she play the game?_

"Fine.  I'm boring and unimaginative," she said, still smiling.  "What would you do, mister smarty-pants?"

Of course she would eventually turn it around on him.  He should have known that, been prepared.  Obvious, really.  But faced with the bald question, he found himself scrambling.  "I'd ... go to China for a few years to ... recharge," he said, taking the first thought that popped into his head and running with it.  "An ... old friend ... of mine is one of the directors of the restoration project of the terra cotta warriors at Xian.   She gave me what amounts to a standing invitation to join her and help out for as long as I want."

"Then what?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you're not going to spend $3 million dusting off terra cotta guys in the middle of China, you know."

"I'd hire a guide and explore the rural lands, I suppose.  Probably make it up to Tibet and stay there for a while."

"After you'd had your fill of China, then what?"

"I'd make my way over to Kilimanjaro."

"You gonna climb it, or just go and look at it?"

"Climb it, of course.  It's one of the easier major mountains to climb."  Why was she pushing him like this?  And what's more, why did he feel as if he were on the receiving end of an interrogation, scrambling for answers?  

"And how long is this venture going to take you?"

"Seven, eight years ... maybe more."  He pulled the number out of thin air, but it seemed close.   That timeframe would give him more than enough room to fully explore every--"

She burst out laughing.  "See, you had me going until that."

"What?"

"You couldn't handle walking away from the job for that long.  You're telling me -- with a straight face -- that you could just give up hunting down criminals for seven years?  Cold turkey?"

"It's that outrageous to think that I might want to ... spend some time thinking about things not tainted with blood?"

"For you?  Yes."

He scoffed.  "You don't know what you're talking about," he said, but his voice lacked conviction.

"You're forgetting, I watch you do this, Bobby.  I've seen you in that room.  You love the hunt too much to give it up."  

Instead of replying, he turned his full attention on her.  Her expression was earnest, her brow furrowed slightly.  She fully believed what she was saying.  He chuckled softly.  "I guess it's a good thing that neither of us is going to get $3 million then, huh?"

"Guess so," she said, glancing over at him with a slight smile.   

***

A Very Special Thanks to my ATLO compatriots for help with the pop culture, and an armful of thanks for jael, my beta on speed. 

The coffee incident Alex and Bobby allude to is, of course, the famous McDonald's coffee case in which  81 year-old Stella Liebeck successfully sued the golden arches for injuries suffered when she was burned by their scalding-hot coffee.  Contrary to popular belief, the case is really more about corporate responsibility (and lack thereof) than it is about out-of-control juries rewarding stupid plaintiffs.  However, since this is fic and not Kyllikki's Legal Ranting 101, I'll put the soapbox away now.  

If you want to see what Alex is driving, go here:  http://www.classicponycars.com/images/williams4.jpg

Writing Bobby's dialogue the way he speaks it makes the line delivery look like William Shatner.  Or Stevie on "Malcolm in the Middle."  Just an observation.


End file.
